I make a face behind his back. God doesn’t care if we are early or late, but I can’t say that to him. It would break his heart.
The guard opens the gate and motions us inside. “The guests will be here soon,” he urges. “You need to hurry and get to work. There’s a lot to be done.”
The guests. I’ve been hearing whispers from the servants all week long about the famous guests from America. Begum Sahiba’s daughter, who I’ve never seen, is finally coming back to Pakistan with a child. More than that, I know nothing, nor do I care to. The other servants gossip about how the daughter married some white man and Begum Sahiba almost had a heart attack. They say the child is white. They say she’s probably rude and ill-mannered. These rich people and their family issues seem so stupid to me. Six children died in my neighborhood last year because of heat stroke. That’s what I care about, making sure something like that doesn’t happen to my family.
We hurry inside and get to work. Tahira, the maid who cleans the house and washes the clothes, is bustling about as if she’s on an important mission. There are bedsheets to be changed, new towels to be placed carefully in all the bathrooms.
She pauses at the kitchen table to drink some water and rest. “Wonder what the Americans will bring for us,” she says, grinning. Her front tooth is missing, and she annoys me with her constant chattering.
I shrug. “I don’t think they’ll bring anything for you,” I tell her. She’s older than me, possibly as old as Amma, or at least close. But she has no common sense.
“Why not?” she retorts. “Begum Sahiba’s guests always give us some money when they leave.”
“You’re being greedy,” I grumble, turning away to my tasks. “Just go do your job, otherwise Begum Sahiba is going to fire you. That’s what she did to the last maid who spent too much time chatting.”
A look of alarm crosses Tahira’s face, and she leaves her water on the table to run out.
“You shouldn’t have scared her, my dear,” Abba tells me, but he’s smiling. I smile back. He knows how much Tahira gets on my nerves.
I’m searching for an answer when he coughs slightly, giving me a warning glance. The next second, Begum Sahiba glides into the kitchen. She’s tall and very thin. She’s wearing a light green silk sari with white peacocks on the border. Her hair is in a bun at the nape of her neck. “Ejaz,” she says, and her voice cracks like a whip. “You’re finally here! Why must you always be late?”
Abba hangs his head. I want to shout that we are right on time, but that’s unthinkable. Servants have been dismissed for lesser sins. We both wash our hands at the sink—I marvel at the water running out of the tap in gushes—and get to work. I take out pots and pans from the cabinets under the stove and oil canisters from the pantry, and line up the spices. Abba is the head cook, and I’m his assistant. Still, it’s Begum Sahiba who decides the menu.
We wait for today’s orders. She’s got a list as long as her bony, gold-bangled arm. Biryani. Shami kabab. Chicken karahi. And nuggets.
I’m guessing that last is for the American girl.
3
Mimi
The Mansion and Its Royalty
I’m not sure what I’m expecting when the buzzer sounds sharply, and the gate swings open smooth as syrup. I peer inside, one hand holding my backpack tightly. The taxi driver has gone, leaving our luggage on the street under a scraggly tree.
We drag the suitcases inside, and the gate swings shut behind us with a clang that makes me jump. On my left is a big garden, with clipped grass and potted plants along the sides. A few white cane chairs are arranged on the far side, waiting to be sat on. I eye them, wondering if Mom ever sat on them, reading or just enjoying the breeze. Wondering everything about Mom right now. I never dreamed she grew up in a house like this.
Behind the gate stands a thin old man with white hair and a long white beard. “Samia Ji! Welcome!” he cries in Urdu, his face creasing into a smile.
Mom smiles, too, and nods. “Malik, I can’t believe you’re still here!” She turns to me. “Malik was my parents’ driver since I was a little girl. He used to drive me everywhere. To school, then to college, and to my friends’ houses. Everywhere!”
Malik is still smiling. “Everywhere,” he echoes. “I’d have picked you up from the airport if I’d known the time.”
Mom waves and continues toward the house. “Getting a taxi was no trouble at all. I’m just so happy to see you again!”
She’s already walking up the long driveway to the house, a suitcase in her right hand, long strides as if she owns the place. Wait, does she? I pick up the second suitcase and follow quickly, not wanting to be left behind. Malik follows us, saying “Alhamdolillah” over and over. There are a few steps, and then a porch, and by the time we reach the front door with our things, the door opens by itself. I sneak a hand into Mom’s, and she squeezes it in a way that makes me think that perhaps, unexpectedly, she’s nervous as well.
A woman stands behind the door and motions us in. When she smiles I see a tooth missing. I’m ready to smile back and offer my standard Urdu greeting, meager as it is—Salaam. Kya haal hai?—but Mom walks inside without even glancing in her direction, so I bow my head and follow. Is that a relative? A servant? There are no answers to all the questions buzzing in my head like the pesky flies in the airport.
But there are no flies in here, only an echoing silence that feels claustrophobic. We walk through a hallway with marbled floors and faded tapestries on the walls, then through double doors into what looks like a highly formal living room. A cool air envelops me, making me groan with happiness. Air-conditioning, the chilly kind that comes from a unit, and not the central air in Houston.
I look around with interest. There are petite armchairs covered in lush red velvet, small round side tables with unusual items like a white chessboard and a collection of glass figurines. An elegant golden chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling. I feel my eyes rounding until they’re stretched like golf balls, and my mouth is probably open, although I’m too shocked to care. Can this really be my mom’s childhood house?
Mom is looking around as well, but with obvious distaste. “Flaunting their wealth as usual,” she mutters as she flings our bags on the floor dangerously close to the table with the glass figurines. I want to shout, to ask why we’ve been living in a one-bedroom apartment in Houston for so many years if there was all . . . this . . . here, but she doesn’t look like she’s in a mood to talk just now. I gingerly put down my backpack and smooth my hair with my hands. Anyone living in this mansion is sure to be super elegant and not smelling like airports.
I step over our bags and walk around to the far side of the room. A small glass case contains beautifully dressed dolls standing in a variety of poses. They have such exquisite faces, and their clothes make them look like fashionistas. Or brides. I squat on the floor and press my face against the glass to stare at them.
“Samia! At last!” A movement makes me turn my head, and for a moment I think I’m staring at Mom’s laptop screen during a late-night Skype session. A woman glides through the doors of the room as if she’s the queen of the castle. Her graying hair is tied in a bun, and glasses dangle on her neck with a pearl string. Her green sari dazzles and shimmers. Behind her is a man in a crisp brown suit. I blink. Is there a party? I cross my arms over my poop emoji and smooth my hair again. I hope that smell isn’t coming from me. When did I last take a shower? I can’t remember.